You're my London girl Just the sound of your voice This could be our final dance This could be our very last chance The way that you walk The way that you talk And I ain't got no choice And if you cut me, don't you think I feel Is this body made of clay,

I done told you boy I'm a soldier boy I got no choice but to be a rider I approach you boy with the toaster boy Get to point blank range and fire I ain't tryin' to hear shit I'm supposed to be rich Motherfucker get in the way of my bread Then I'm goin'

So pardon me, boys I'm gonna be late I don't have the choice I've got to get into shape It's eight on the nose And I gotta go So pass me my coat I've got to get to the show Ain't got no feelin'